“Ulysses Grant?” Hiram stared at his nephew. “The general? No, my dear boy, you’re mistaken. Abraham Lincoln is our president.”
It would do no good and cause much distress to tell Hiram Sloane that Abraham Lincoln was dead and that two more presidents had been sworn in since then.
Deftly, Meg changed the subject once again. While they spoke of the weather, Sylvie wondered how much Mr. Davenport knew about his uncle’s condition and if the staff had divulged anything to help orient him. A headache swelled between her temples. Navigating conversation was proving to be more like winding through a field of hidden explosives, careful not to trigger anything that may upset the three men present. She glanced out the window at the garden, where rose vines withered on a trellis, crisp brown petals spinning off in the wind.
Hans, the footman, bent to remove her barely touched bowl. “Finished, miss?”
“I am, yes, thank you,” she whispered.
“Very good.” He nodded his white-blond head and took it away.
But not before Stephen noticed she hadn’t eaten her stew. “Sylvia, that was wasteful of you.” His voice held the low rumble of a coming storm. “Young man,” he called to Hans, gesturing for him to return.
“Is there a problem?” Hiram asked.
Bread crumbs salting his beard, Stephen pointed at the bowl. “You didn’t eat your food.”
“I’m not hungry for it, nor overly fond,” Sylvie whispered, before adding, “There will be more than enough food in the following courses. I’ll have my fill and then some, I’m sure.”
“How could you be so wasteful, when so many go hungry every day?” Stephen repeated as if he hadn’t heard her. “Do you know how we survived down there? This stew you turn your nose up at could have saved a man’s life. Three men. More.”
“Sir?” Hans stood still, bowl on the platter he held.
“What will you do with that now, young man? Will you eat it?”
“Oh no, sir.”
“Will you put it back in the pot and save it for Hiram to eat later?”
“That is not our custom, sir. To give Mr. Sloane food off other people’s plates.” The poor man seemed perplexed.
“It is perfectly good food!” Stephen exploded. “Barely touched!”
At his outburst, Hiram lifted a hand. “You’re at odds with yourself, friend. Let me send for a doctor.”
“No, thank you, Hiram,” Meg was quick to say.
Stephen shook his head. “No, no doctors. But you must explain to me what you plan to do with that food. If you think it unfit for people now, at least put it outside for an animal to find.”
When Mr. Davenport sent Sylvie a questioning look, she told him, “Our father is very concerned for the welfare of any living on the street.”
“Is that right? Stray animals?” His voice betrayed his surprise.
“Animals, children, immigrants, the general poor,” Stephen clarified. “The city is full of those in need. No living creature should go hungry. If you’d been hungry before, truly hungry, you would know what I mean. You’d agree.”
Something shifted in the younger man’s expression. “I do.” Straightening his spine, he turned to Hans. “You’ll do as Mr. Townsend requests?”
Hans looked to Hiram for confirmation.
The old man nodded. “Do as my nephew bids.”
“As you wish.”
But just as Hans turned to leave the room, another footman came in, carrying a platter of dome-covered plates. The two footmen collided, and Hans stumbled backward. The platter tipped, the bowl upended, and Sylvie’s stew spilled all over the floor.
Crying out, Stephen took his spoon and flew toward the mess, trying in vain to scoop the stew back into the bowl. “What a waste!” With his bare fingers, he fished out the bits of oyster. Tears ran down his cheeks. “It could have helped a hungry creature!”
While Hans stuttered a stunned apology, Meg—predictably—pushed back from the table, ready to launch herself toward Stephen, but Sylvie stayed her with a look. This was Sylvie’s doing, at least in part. It ought to be Sylvie at his side.
She joined her father on the floor, the fabric of her skirt drawing in the warm broth. Dismay spread from the center of her chest, edged with a searing shame. This was her fault. This wouldn’t have happened if she had only eaten her food. But as quickly as the thought formed, another chased it: The problem is not with me. With her father, she felt forced to play child and parent both, when in truth she was neither.
Hiram stood. “It is nothing,” he soothed. “We can still put out a bowl for the strays.”
“But not this one.” Stephen sat back on his heels, shoulders slumped. He buried his face in his hands. “Just that little bit could have helped them. It might have saved Pritchard and Jenkins and Smith. I see them still,” he whispered. “Every time I eat, I see them.”
Mr. Davenport rose into a beam of sunshine that cut across the room and flared on his curls. Both footmen looked to him, and he dismissed them from the room, a gesture of respect for Stephen’s privacy.
Not that Stephen noticed. How utterly alone he must feel. I’m right here, she wanted to say. Look! You are here with us, we are here with you! Whatever burden you bear, let us share it! Wherever you go, take us along! But words webbed in her throat. He had already traveled away from them in his mind.
Gently, she touched his back.
He flinched as though struck, then knocked her back with a force he could not have meant for his daughter.
“Oh! Sylvie, Sylvie, what are you doing there?” he asked. Had he really not noticed her until now?
“I say!” Hiram’s voice sounded from somewhere above them. “You’re at odds with yourself, friend. Let me send for a doctor.”
Stephen thrust his fingers through his hair. “I . . . said . . . no!” He shuddered with silent tears.
Sylvie’s eyes remained dry. The soiled patch of her dress, once warm with stew, was now cold and clinging through her petticoat to her skin, a thin layer of glue holding her to the mess.
It was Hiram’s nephew who helped her up, a kind of knowing banked in his expression. Meg rushed to support Stephen as he pushed himself off the floor. But when he had gained his feet beneath him, he fled through the door and left them all behind.
Dust coated Stephen’s skin as he dragged a stick across the ground, redrawing the Dead Line on his backyard map of Andersonville. Sweat itched across his scalp and trickled down the side of his face. That didn’t trouble him.
All that concerned him right now was preserving the memory of that place in order to honor those who died there. He’d promised his friends they wouldn’t be forgotten. That was a promise he aimed to keep.
Staring at the dirt, he blinked, and memory stained the soil the livid red of Georgia clay. He blinked again and saw the ground yawn wide, saw himself piling the bodies of his fellow Yankee prisoners into the pit. Stephen rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes but could not stop seeing them. The bodies were ravaged by hunger and scurvy to the point that their mothers would not have known their sons. But Stephen knew them. He knew his friends. There was Jenkins, Pritchard, and Smith. He had fed them into foreign soil to be swallowed up. Another mass grave, unmarked, a grossly undignified end for any person, let alone a soldier in service to his country.